Optometry

Thirsty Ear; 2002

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There's a revolution coming and DJ Spooky's at the front line! Or so say the folks whose job it is to shovel coal into the ol' hype engine. But then, there's this tendency in the music press to judge DJ Spooky not for the music he makes, but for that music's effect on some large yet ephemeral scene, the whereabouts of which no one seems capable of putting their finger on. Of course, being the intelligent, sophisticated music nerds we are, you and I know that's just plain silly-- just as it would be silly to pan Optometry because it never quite accomplishes the lofty goals it aims for.

The latest in Thirsty Note's Blue Series (an ongoing attempt to both sell the concept of jazz to a young crowd of would-be hipsters too busy prodding at their Powerbooks to pay attention to jazz, and to sell the concept of electronics + jazz to a grizzled bunch of old fundamentalists who see no place for computers anywhere near a stage or a studio), Spooky's Optometry borrows its concept, and most of its players, from another Blue Series release: Matthew Shipp's recent Nu Bop. While both records place Shipp and his fellow New York jazzhounds (William Parker, Guillermo E. Brown) alongside New York electronic scenesters, Optometry's results are a bit stronger. Though Nu Bop had its fair share of solid tunes, it often seemed like the electronics were tacked on as an afterthought; on Optometry, Spooky plays the role of bandleader and producer. (And turntablist. And bassist. And guy in the studio with a kalimba.) As a result, the mix is a bit more evenhanded.

Not that you'd guess it from the first couple of tracks. Optometry's opening ten minutes fits the Nu Bop mold pretty well. Shipp, Parker and a couple of pals burst in with their usual aplomb. There are quick flourishes of these ee-leck-tricks I keep hearing about-- buzzing or a hint of delay here, field recordings of trucks passing there-- but Spooky doesn't make his presence fully felt until the third track, "Variation Cybernetique: Rhythmic Pataphysic (Part I)", where Daniel Bernard Roumain's violin weeps over a long ambient soundscape built from processed piano. This is the first of two intermissions, and it signifies a move from the ordinary to the adventurous.

Spooky opens the next segment with "Asphalt (Tome II)", a collaboration with Pauline Oliveros (how's that for cred?) and spoken word artist Carl Hancock Rux. A finger piano is struck and a glitchified soundscape that sounds pilfered and processed from the preceding track unfolds. Shipp adds a repeating piano phrase and Brown drops a standard hip-hop boom-bip just as Rux's velvet-smooth voice appears in the mix. "I got two turntables and Coltrane," he says. "And not just Blue Coltrane. And not just Monk and not just Miles. I've got a million musicians playing over my head, a band of angels responding to the percussion of stomps and hollers. Heads don't even know what's happening to 'em; they just know something's happening to 'em." Soon the jam's transforms into a hip-hop chorus, a wailing saxophone, a furiously scratched record, a storm of ambient whooshes. And then there's that boom-bip again. And a bassline. And Rux's voice. Later, Shipp and Parker interact over an ambient portion that sees all the song's components breaking down into something entirely new, entirely different.

So is this jazz? Spoken word? Hip-hop? Sound collage? I sure don't know. And if you asked any of the artists involved what they'd call this music, my guess is they'd shrug and mutter, "Who the hell cares?" The world has more than its fair share of closed-minded individuals who care about things like genres, who scoff when they see a laptop on stage, who openly equate turntablism with plagiarism. But this record wasn't made for them. Optometry's intent, it would seem, is to celebrate the meeting of new worlds-- not to appease those who would rather see them remain separate.

The title track opens with abstract drumming and an assortment of synth burps, the newness of which is countered by the ancient mutterings of Roumain's violin. Shipp and tenor saxophonist Joe McPhee join in, though their simple and repetitive parts arise suspicion. Are they playing live or is Spooky constructing a jam that never happened out of pieces of tape and long strings of ones and zeroes? The pre-recorded breakbeat which fades in and out of the proceedings only adds to the uncertainty. But uncertainty is, of course, the point. In the album's liner notes, Spooky rambles about sampling, rearranging, and reinventing music, reveling in the new doors opened by new technology. He wants us to question whether we're hearing 'the real thing' or not. And after that, he wants us to wonder why it really matters.

Rather than just make an album that merges a few different techniques or genres, Spooky has made a point of calling attention to it. This self-awareness casts Optometry as a potentially significant album, acting simultaneously as its Achilles' heel. Ultimately, Spooky casts himself as ringleader to a revolution that fails to happen-- after the initial bustle of a few extremely strong tracks, Optometry wanders blindly for far too long. For someone so obsessed with his own place in an ongoing transformation, Spooky too often seems reluctant to jump into the swimming pool.

Closer "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad World" bursts open with a maelstrom of saxophone loops, glitched-out samples and feedback. Shipp and friends try repeatedly to kick out the jams, but Spooky keeps interrupting, garbling waveforms, fucking with minds. Optometry needs more tracks like this, and fewer tracks like "Rosemary", where Spooky's sole input seems to be the creation of an ambient canvas for the other musicians to paint on. Granted, Shipp's quartet here are fine players. Granted, their improvisations are pleasing to the air and musically quite sound. And granted, there's something to be said for subtlety and respect. But all this talk of new sounds has me anxious to hear more lines being crossed. It's not that I dislike what I'm hearing; it's just that I've heard it before.

Optometry is certainly an adequate fusion, and its taste lasts a lot longer than did Nu Bop's. When it works, it's actually quite fucking stunning. But Optometry will not ignite the metamorphosis it threatens to. It will not send the world's jazz purists scouring the IDM lists in search of new collaborators. Nor will it pull too many heads from the stale paper smell of the record crates or the eerie white glow of their laptops. What it will do is entertain open-minded types who don't expect too much from it. Call it intermission music for the revolution.